


Wonderous

by Mottled_System



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Begging, Blood, Blood Kink, Blood Loss, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Desire, Dominant Kylo Ren, Eventual Smut, Fantasizing, Fear, Fear Play, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Force Mind Reading (Star Wars), Force Sensitivity (Star Wars), Force-Sensitive Reader, Gender Neutral, Gratuitous Smut, Kissing, Knifeplay, Kylo Ren is Nice, Kylo Ren is a Good Boy, Light Angst, Lightsabers, Masochism, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Masturbation, Mutual Pining, POV Second Person, Pain, Painplay, Pining, Possessive Kylo Ren, Protective Kylo Ren, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Sadism, Sex, Shame, Stuttering, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, Surgery, The Dark Side of the Force (Star Wars), The Force, Top Kylo Ren, Virgin Kylo Ren, gender neutral reader, reader bottoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:28:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27966821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottled_System/pseuds/Mottled_System
Summary: You have always enjoyed pain. You always yearned to impress your master. You never considered there could be something a bit more... Sinister... Behind either of those things-Until he teaches you just how wonderous it can be.
Relationships: Ben Solo & Reader, Ben Solo | Kylo Ren & Reader, Ben Solo | Kylo Ren/Reader, Ben Solo/Reader, Kylo Ren & Reader, Kylo Ren/Reader
Kudos: 39





	1. Pity

You stand at attention as the stormtroopers who allowed you entry page for Kylo, knowing he will get to you impossibly fast no matter how far away in the ship he is. Your leg is still bleeding freely, half of your pant leg dangling uselessly, dripping your own blood as well as the blood of your enemies. Your entire body aches from the fight, and your head is splitting.

The more time passes, the more the anxious panic leaves, the more the drained, lethal dread sits in.

To distract yourself from that, you focus on the energy of your master as he moves towards you; you honed your ability to sense people, to simply  _ know _ , long before you had met your master, before you knew anything of the Force. It was the only reason you had survived that Gods forsaken planet.

You don’t know how he’s moving so quickly, but he does- perhaps it’s a Force ability he has not yet taught you. Regardless, in no more than three minutes, you feel him exit the elevator.

You see him long before you can see him, gliding intimidatingly forward, exuding confident danger and a strangely alluring swagger. His cape billows behind him, and his mask glimmers in the bright light of the hallway. The stormtroopers shift behind you.

“My master,” you say and drop onto your good- or, at least,  _ better _ \- knee, bowing your head.

“Stand.”

You obey, standing and looking at the cold and impassive helmet he wears. “Yes, master.”

“Come.”

He swivels and dutifully, you follow, staring at his back. Your gate grows more and more exaggerated; limping doesn’t help, and in fact in only causes you more pain, but at this speed you cannot force yourself to walk normally. You’re all but lurching by the time you arrive at your destination, the medbay. He dismisses the medics that come forth and lead you into the droid-run sector, motioning for you to sit. Of course, you do.

When the automatic door  _ whooshes _ finishes closing, the mechanical sound of him removing his helmet fills the emptiness that ensues in its stead. You see the side of his face and his long, dark mane as his gloved hands set his mask on a table to the side. “What happened?”

“I found the Jedi- the padawans, of course, and another. I don’t know if he was a Jedi- he was… Too strong. It all happened so fast-”

He looks at you with calm, cool eyes. “ _ What _ happened?”

You inhale slowly, then exhale sharply, composing yourself. The sight of his face- your master’s face- calms you. “I found them on an asteroid; they’d sensed me looking for them and tried to flee. There were four people on board- the padawans we knew about, old and grisled and experienced but only half trained. I could have taken the three of them easily. But there was another… I could not get a read on him before the togruta attacked.”

“And then? Where are they now?”

“Dead. All of them. I tried- I tried to spare one, to interrogate them or bring them here, but they did not leave me the option. I am sorry, master. I have failed you.”

He turns to you fully then, appraising you. “Failed?”

Your brow furrows as you look up at him. “We don’t know who the other Force user was, what they were doing. Depending on who they were, they could have led us to more- we would have at least  _ known _ .”

“That’s true,” he says. “But you did as I ordered. You killed the padawans. You did not  _ fail _ .” He turns and walks towards the medical droid, turning it on. “There is a reason you are the apprentice, and I the master. You did fine, Y/N.”

_ Fine _ . You are not content to be fine. He smirks and glances up at you as he sets the droid to work on your leg. “You will be better, my apprentice. You will grow.”

“I will, master. I will.”

He stands and leans on the table beside his helmet. “You think I am too easy on you.”

You look down at the ground. “I have failed- if not you, then myself. Yes, I deserve to be- reprimanded.”

He looks at you, amused. “You have failed yourself… Then prove to yourself that you are better. You did not fail me, and I will not punish you for doing as you’re told. I was not even sure you would succeed against the three padawans, much less another, more skilled user.” Kylo shifts, getting a funny little smile on his handsome face. “I am-  _ proud _ of you.”

“ _ Proud? _ ” You echo, the shock apparent on your voice.

“Yes, Y/N. Proud.”

You sit in silence as the droid works on your wound. You watch it for a moment, dissociating at the strange and macabre sight of your skin being sliced and sewn, of the ripped and torn muscle and shredded flesh. You shudder, shaking yourself out of it, and look over at Kylo. “They used blades, not lightsabers. Blades that deflected my lightsaber.”

Kylo nods slowly. “I had assumed.”

“I didn’t see any proof to suggest they were with the Rebels,” you offer, desperate for more approval, more validation. “Though nothing to disprove it, either.”

“Mmm,” Kylo hums quietly. “Does it hurt?”

You glance down at your wound; your foot is shaking, and your thigh is threatening to collapse. “A bit. I’ll be fine.”

“Here,” Kylo mutters. He stops the droid and places your leg on a stool, then sets the droid back to work.

“Thank you, master.”

“What did you do wrong to get struck?” He asks, reclining on the table again.

“I was caught off guard by the number of them. I should have entered with more caution and adapted quicker.”

“Good.”

Another comfortable silence falls over the two of you until the droid has finished; you move to finish cleaning the wound, but Kylo rebukes you dismissively and readies the supplies. “Th-thank you, master.”

He removes his leather gloves and replaces them with the surgical blue ones. “You generally invite pain,” he says casually, prompting you to blink. His hands have slid over your skin, almost caressing you, before you manage to muster a response.

“I-I-I- wh-what?”

His dark eyes look into yours, reading you. “You generally invite pain. When we fight, when you’re struck- when you strike your foot against something, or slice your finger open. You invite the pain… But not now.”

_ Mind reader _ . You feel yourself flush, and stutter for a long moment before pausing, clearing your throat, composing yourself. “This is different.” Your voice is quiet and small.

He doesn’t look at you, but you see the gears in his mind turn as he wipes the blood away from your wound, causing a searing, chemical pain bubbling into your skin. You tense and let out a small hiss.

And you welcome the pain- invite it.

“Why?”

You turn your head to the side and grumble in response. “That was the pain of failure, of folly, from a foe. When you strike me, it is of growth, of learning, of betterment.”

“And now?”

You look down at it as he tends carefully to your wound. Your entire leg is shaking now, and the entirety of your calf feels raw and wounded, even the parts that haven’t been. “I… Enjoy the sensation. Just when there is no reason not to.”

“Sexually?” His voice is casual, nonchalant, but you turn as red as the blade of your lightsaber.

“Wh-what?” You stutter out for a long time. “No! N-not.. No.”

“Not what?”

“Not- not typically,” you say, hugging yourself. You don’t talk about things like this. You’ve only recently come to terms with  _ thinking _ about things like this- no, not even  _ like this _ , just sexual in general.

There had not been much room for sexual maturity where you come from, nor where you’ve arrived.

He wraps your wound in silence as you sit there, still flushed, suddenly wondering if it  _ is _ sexual…

But, no. You’ve had-  _ urges _ , and they were entirely unlike your subtle fondness of pain.

Kylo stands and appraises you for a moment as he disposes of the bloodied blue gloves and replaces them with his leather gloves. “Pity,” he mutters under his breath, seemingly to himself, as he turns and begins to head towards the door.

He’s gone before you can wonder aloud what that means.


	2. Only You

The image of your dumbfounded face as you sat there, blinking several times, entirely struck as he left you had burned itself into his memory the moment he’d seen it.

He can’t stop seeing it as he walks towards his chambers, the entire conversation replaying in his head.

You want him to  _ punish _ you. You relish in the pain he inflicts upon you while sparring, while tending to your wounds. You’re like an abandoned puppy desperate for attention, for praise; you yearn to impress him, to please him.

He had been struck by the sight of you upon seeing you- your raw and untamed power. He had relished in molding you into the warrior you were meant to be, in instructing and teaching you. And Kylo Ren was not the type of person to take naturally to instructing others…

Only you.

He pictured you in his mind. Your glorious hair and what you have done with it over the year he’s known you; your stunning eyes and the way they shimmer in the light; your beautiful face and strong, capable body. The more he knew you, the more he noticed you, the way you look and move and feel and carry yourself. He’s become-  _ enthralled _ with it.

And yet he has not shown his interest; by the time he had realized it, by the time it had appeared and grown enough to be noticed, your routine and roles had been set, your dynamic seemingly static. Kylo Ren was not for romance, nor even sexual endeavours; those were sated easily enough without the need of another.

But  _ you _ . You and your adoration, you and your proclivity for pain, had awakened in him for the first time the urge to ravage someone- and that someone could only be you.

But he would not do that to you- he couldn’t, could he? All his life he had been under the tutelage of people who had abused and bastardized their care of him. Would propositioning you be as wrong, as cruel, as selfish?

He did not see how, really, but feared it more than anything. He did not want to be to you what  _ they _ had been to him- he would not let himself. He was not a good or a kind man, and he more than knew it- he had done many horrible things and would certainly do many more- but he would not corrupt or taint or bruise or distort anyone. What he did was dirty, but honest.

He hears your startled little stuttering, your sheepish expression, feels your fluttering heart as you lapse in your own defenses at the shock brought on by his words. You are a strong and fierce and capable and wickedly intelligent person; you are strong willed and sharp witted. It was what he admired most about you. And yet to see you there, flushing, fluttering your lashes… To see that side of you had been just as endearing, had had him as taken with you as every ounce of strength you’d ever shown.

He arrived at his chambers and walked inside, dropping the helmet he had not bothered to return to his head on the settee. He stood still for a moment, cracking his neck and trying to shake off his ever-growing desire and admiration of you and failing quite spectacularly.

He decides to shower before retiring early.

His shower is large and grand, the walls covered in the same sleek black tile that covers the floor. There is a large soaking tub raised on a platform beside a spacious shower with six shower heads and several jets on the side that could be turned on or off, and a double vanity that spanned an entire wall, surrounded by built in shelving. It was beyond excessive and, in that regard, almost disconcerting to him; it was unlike anything he’d ever experienced in his life prior to joining the First Order, and even now, years later, it still struck him sometimes how odd and foreign it was.

He can see himself in the mirror as he showered. Usually, he would turn to face the dark tiles as he cleaned himself, but for some reason, he appraises himself tonight.

He had never stopped to wonder whether or not he was an attractive man. He had been told he was  _ cute _ as a child, but after he’d gone off to train with his uncle, that had predictably stopped. Whether or not he was attractive had not mattered, not as a jedi. Over the years, he had noticed three girls and one boy who had had a crush on him, but he did not know if that was a lot of people or few people, or whether it had anything to do with the fact that there were only a handful of children all isolated with only one another. And, after joining Snoke, there were not many people who had the chance to see his face. Those that did were often only surprised and frightened.

You think he is attractive, though. You think about him more than you’d admit, his face; you are decreasingly struck by the sight of him, but still the memory remains within you, and he knows you think about him. He’s never felt anything explicitly sexual or intimate about it, though, and he did not know if that was a normal thing to happen- and, regardless, you were a very strange person.

He studies himself. His face is long and angular, his nose long and hooked, his eyes dark, his eyebrows wide set. His pale skin is dotted with freckles and birthmarks. His lips are large and plush. His shoulders are broad and his abdomen is muscular, his arms wide, his hands large. His thighs are thick and strong, his calves as well. His feet are strangely long, his toes large and round.

He doesn’t know if he’s attractive. He supposes he doesn’t have a strong frame of reference for that; he looks largely unlike any human he’s ever seen. His face is ovular like his fathers, and from certain angles, he did look like him; his eyes and his ears are like his mothers; his hair is like his grandmother’s; he has little aspects of all of them in him, and yet he does not look at all like any of them.

He finishes showering and dries off quickly before finally making his way to his bedroom, laying down and staring up at the ceiling, thinking of you once again, seeing you as if you float above him. Here, in the comfort and familiarity of the small room in which he sleeps, his body takes its opportunity to stir as his thoughts of you darken, deepen. He can see your lips part and he focuses on that as his member begins to stir, here in the only place it is allowed to do so.

It had been very difficult- and very imperative- to learn how to control  _ that _ particular happening, and he’d mastered it half a lifetime ago. But he does not need it now, here. His hand finds his cock and strokes it gently, not rushing the moment, but letting his desire grow as he closes his eyes and imagines.

‘What are you looking at, Y/N?’ he would ask.

You would flush and shudder and avert your eyes. ‘Master- your- you-’

‘What?’

You would look up at him, frightened and just as hungry as himself. ‘You.’

‘Me?’

‘Your- your-’

‘My  _ cock? _ ’

You would shudder and nod.

‘Say it.’

‘I- I’m looking a-at y-your  _ cock _ , master.’

He strokes himself with more confidence, more purpose, his grip tightening, as his member stands fully at attention. You would look down at it again and your lips would part as they often do, but your eyes would be half lidded and full of a newfound, unfamiliar lust. ‘And do you like what you see, pet?’

‘Yes.’ Your voice would be quiet and husky and full of an unyielding desire.

‘Touch it, then.’

And you would. Greedily, you would move forward and collapse onto your knees in front of him, taking it in your considerably smaller, considerably softer hand. You would gaze at him, transfixed, as you stroked him with both hands, milking his cock as if you’re desperate for him to absolutely drench you with his-

He cums, much more prematurely than he’d have liked; he curses aloud as his seed spills over his hand, as the pleasure ebbs through him, and rides the orgasm to its end…

He wanted to think about you more, to imagine you sucking him, to imagine you riding him, but the moment had passed and it was never as sweet as when he was hard and he did not want to waste thought of you on a flaccid penis. Grumbling and offended, he cleans himself and turns onto his side.

You are the last thing he thinks of before he fades into sleep.


	3. Ecstatic Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter with all the bloodplay, knifeplay, and painplay, btw.

Even with the Force, it takes a week before your leg is healed enough for Kylo to permit you to train once more. You feel like that is excessive, but of course you do not argue or defy him in secret.

And what a week you have lived.

You cannot stop thinking about what he said to you, what he asked you.  _ Sexually _ ? With one word he had seemingly ruined you, sullied your mind.

It had not been sexual before. But for the past week, it  _ very much has been _ .

At least once every night, you had found yourself incapable of resisting the urge to touch yourself, and as you had, you could not help but imagine him hurting you- sometimes, in very small and mundane ways, like striking you too hard while sparring or cleaning a wound. Others…

It had been more sinister several times. More sexual, often.

Sometimes, you would imagine him being as cruel to you as he was others- Force choking you for little to no reason, slamming you into walls or ceilings and watching you crumble to the floor in pain and shock.

And sometimes, he was _ taking you _ and choking you, slapping you, degrading you.

And, twice, you had imagined him torturing you, far worse than he did even in interrogation, in ways you refused to even think unless your fingers were furiously swirling themselves around your eager, swollen sex.

Occasionally, full of a secret and unspeakable shame, you had imagined him when you’d touched yourself, but he had always been kind, attentive, gentle, just as he often was to you. It had been a glorious, if hopeless, reverie. And now your sick, twisted, filthy mind had ruined it, tainted it.

“Y/N,” says Kylo’s voice, breaking you out of your thoughts. You jump and swivel and shudder at the sight of him- he is holding his helmet in his hands, and had probably just removed it when he spoke. He tosses it to the side, eyeing you curiously.

“My m-master,” you say and drop to your knee, bowing your head. “I apologize. It was- a long night last night,” your voice fades to a whisper as you speak.

“Not your leg bothering you, I hope?”

“No, master. My leg is fine; I removed the stitches this morning.”

“Up.” Kylo’s voice is harsher than you’re used to and you stand, looking at him. He seems annoyed and motions you to sit in the chair beside you; you sit, feeling anxiety flood through you. Lips set with disapproval, he crouches and tugs your leg toward him, sliding your leg gently up and appraising your wound. “You should have come to me first.”

You blink and shift in your seat. “I’m sorry, master. Should I- should I have left them in?”

He’s all but scowling at your leg. “No. But you should have come to me first.”

“Yes, master. I’m sorry, master.”

He sets your leg down and lowers your pant leg again before standing. “What have you been doing?’

Your mind wordlessly reminds you of your degeneracy and you flush before you can stop yourself. He notices and looks at you, eyes narrowing as he instantly sends forth his psychic probe; instinctively you slam your walls up and recoil. “No!” You cry out. “Please, n-no.”

He hesitates before acquiescing. “Are you alright?”

“Y-yes,” you mutter and lean back in your seat. He is studying you like a vulture, eager to pick apart any scrap of information you let slip past your mental guard but unwilling to push you and demand you let him inside.

“Alright,” he says reluctantly.

Your training goes well; you have kept up on what he instructed you to do while your training was postponed, and you showcase your abilities perfectly against the droids and targets he has lined up to test you. When he stands and readies himself, though, you pause. He looks at you expectantly for a moment before tilting his head to the side curiously.

“Your lightsaber.”

You pull it out almost reluctantly but do not ignite it. “Perhaps- perhaps we could save sparring for another day,”

He looks like a wolf happening upon an injured rabbit. “And why would we do that?”

“My leg hurts.” It is not a lie, per se… And yet it is still an excuse, still an untruth.

He is not taking your word for it. He deactivates his lightsaber and sheaths it, stalking forward; uncharacteristically, you take several steps back. He stops perhaps five inches in front of you, close enough to make you shudder. His energy radiates off of him and teases your body, and you flush, incapable of meeting his eyes.

He studies you for a long moment, silent, while you stare uncomfortably at the floor behind him. Your stomach has stirred, but it has not travelled very far down. You are on the brink of desire, but you have not fallen into it.

You mustn’t. Not here, not in front of him.

“I apologize,” he says, his voice so quiet that it is barely audible. You look up suddenly to see regret in his dark eyes, and you open your mouth to speak, finding no words. “My words- I clearly… Unsettled you. I did not mean to-”

“No,” you say hurriedly, shaking your head vehemently. “You did not unsettle me.”

He narrows his eyes and studies you further, tilting his head. He is clearly waiting for an explanation; you both stand there for an excessive amount of time as he waits, until your leg does begin to ache. “Speak,” he bids finally, his voice quiet and gentle.

You open your mouth again, but your mind refuses to supply any words to offer. You close your eyes and furrow your brows. You cannot will yourself to admit to him your-  _ reviling _ desires, how you refuse to use him to fuel them. And you cannot imagine inviting him in to see them. “I can’t,” you say. Your voice breaks as you speak, and you sound on the verge of tears; it is then that you realize, quite simply, that you are. Your throat is swollen and taut and wet.

You are pathetic and undeserving of your role.

“Open.”

“I-”

“I am not asking, Y/N.” His voice is gentle, kind, but stern.

And you cannot deny your master. You feel your face twist as several hot tears force their way past your staunchly closed eyelids and, as if sealing your fate, you force your walls to lower themselves.

His presence pours into you like a waterfall, consuming you, touching every surface and flooding into every nook, every cranny, as his mind devours your own. You shudder at the ever familiar sensation, so consumed by  _ him _ that you simply cannot be fearful.

You don’t know how long he remains, studying and watching and consuming, before he retreats, but when he does he leaves as suddenly as he’d entered, leaving you cold and shocked and unfamiliar to the sensation of being alone in your own mind.

You open your eyes to see him gazing at you, looking unsure and so many other things that you do not recognize. When you open your mouth to speak, to apologize and beg for forgiveness, he grabs you and pulls you to him, his mouth crashing against you.

You gasp against him as his tongue rolls against yours like a wave, and instinctively you place your hands on his strong, hard biceps, feeling him even through the thick fabric of his dark tunic. His arms make their way to your waist and lift you easily into him- to support yourself, you wrap your legs around his waist and turn crimson. He groans hungrily, desperately against your lips and you shudder and whimper.

Then, finally, you return his kiss, following his lead, folding your lips against his the way he does yours, toying with his tongue the way he teases yours.

It is only moments before you’re pressing into him, pulling him into you, wanting to feel his hard body force itself upon you, surround you, dominate you.

He drops to his knees and sets you on the ground, his lips finding yours to kiss you ferociously as his hands quickly strip you of your clothing. He is at once gentle and careless, rough and entirely consumed with touching and caressing you, merging your varied fantasies about him, living up to all contradictory expectations at once.

When you are barren and exposed beneath him, you struggle to disrobe him as well; thoughtlessly, he throws his own clothing off of himself, refusing to unfuse his lips from yours for more than a few moments at a time, as if his very existence is reliant upon drinking from you.

You feel drained and hungry and desperate for him, utterly consumed by him. Your sex throbs for him in any way that he is willing to take you.

“Please,” you beg. Your voice sounds drunk and needy. “ _ Please _ .”

As if knowing what you are begging for- and, of course, he’s  _ him _ , he must- he outstretches his hand and summons to him a small, beautiful dagger and presses it into your throat. He pulls back, leaving you stunned and gasping for air. The blade is sharp against your skin, a looming threat. “You want me to hurt you.”

“Yes,” you plead. “Gods, yes.”

He presses the blade slowly into your skin, deep enough to send panicked neurons into a frenzy, but not so much that you are truly worried about the wound; you feel your skin split and sharp pain blossom in your throat, focusing on it, relishing in it. You moan loudly and it fizzles out into a whimper as your muscles in and around your sex clench; you are ravenous, but there is more yet to do. After he’s sliced your throat from ear to ear he pulls the dagger away and lets several drops of scarlet blood trickle onto your law, your cheek, your lips; without a thought you open them and he lowers the blade, dragging the sides against your eager lips. The taste of it does not affect you one way or another- the tangy, metallic taboo of it does not stir you- but the dark, satisfied gleam in his hungry eyes does. Yearning to please him, you lick your blood off of the blade, cleaning it, and his jaw works as he rolls his hips into yours, clearly as enthralled with you as you are with him.

You would not have dared to dream that could be true.

He presses his finger against your wound then as he drops the dagger on the ground, bringing a moan of ecstatic pain burgeoning out of your parted lips. He then presses his finger  _ into _ your wound, sliding it around, feeling horrible and wonderful and terrifying and exciting and every wondrously huge thing all at once. You chortle as he does it, tears stinging your eyes as his fingers carefully, mercilessly, wrench skin from muscle.

When he’s done, the wound aches and feels as if its been set ablaze.

Then, he takes the blade and drags it across your skin; it is sharp enough that with hardly any pressure at all it leaves a small white line, not a true cut, but visible nonetheless. He traces it over your body, leaving you preoccupied with the anticipation of when- or if- he was going to slice into you again.

And, of course, he does. He slices briefly into your skin as he swirls around your nipple, much more shallow than he had sliced your throat but deep enough to show red, before removing the blade and scratching over your nipple itself, a sensation that feels provocative and dirty. He slides his blade down your belly, but just as he seems intent on sliding it across your sex you gasp and grab his hand. It’s a wonderful, tempting thought but the fear urges you to gasp the word, “No,”

He abides instantly, curving the blade towards your thigh and piercing through it, sliding easily in between your muscles and the layer of fat on the inside and you gasp; half of the blade disappears into your thigh and you whimper as you desperately fight the urge to squirm and scream and cry.

It is delectable. He removes the blade and slides past your knee, down your uninjured calf, and you moan and whimper as your thigh screams in agony. He tickles your foot with the blade before moving to the other. He seems to pause at your injury, as if considering ripping it open once more, but moves along. He slices another cut only as deep as your throat wound before tracing benignly up your body again, passing over your other nipple and catching painfully on your open and freely bleeding wound. He slices up your chin and along the side of your face, no deeper that the wound beside your nipple, before lowering it towards your eye.

Your lips fall open in a silent gasp and you focus on the point of the blade mere millimeters from your eye. You would shudder if the terror had not paralyzed you. By the time he finally removes the blade from so close to your eye, you have a thin layer of sweat over your entire body, mingling with the blood and the fluids of your arousal, and your eyes have begun to water.

You exhale in relief as he drops the dagger on the ground and clenches your throat tightly, bringing a nearly unparalleled pain to your wound. You chortle as he wraps your legs around his waist and presses his fully erect member against your entrance. You shiver and shudder in his arms; Kylo is on his knees before you and your head is on the floor, your pelvis elevated and pressed firmly against him.

He releases your throat and watches you gasp for air. “Do you want me to fuck you, Y/N?”

“Yes,” you whimper, your sex prickling at the feeling of the vibrations against your burning, agitated wound. “Yes, master- please. Please fuck me.”

“Where?” He taunts you.

“There,” you whine. His head has practically pressed into you.

“Here?” he prompts, grinding into you, and you coo and nod.

“Yes, please…”

He rams unforgivingly into you and you cry out at unfamiliar sensation of being stretched, of being filled. “Oh! Oh,  _ Gods _ , yes!” You cry, surging into him even as it causes your thigh to scream.

He moves his hips in a furious, delightful cyclone, striking the deepest and most delightful part of you each and every time. He grips your hips like a vice, his eyes scouring your body and clearly pleased with what they see. “Say my name,” he says in a low and deadly growl. “Say my name.”

“Kylo,” you pur energetically, rejuvenated by the pleasure that echoes from your walls like electrical sparks every time he pulls out or slams home. “Gods- fuck me harder, Kylo, faster,  _ deeper _ !”

He does, pounding into you so fiercely that your body all but shakes. Your thigh begins to spasm and you start to feel a bit faint, only the delicious pleasure he rams into you strong enough to pierce the haze. You gaze up at him, his determined face awash with an angry, hungry pleasure. He groans and growls, moaning occasionally; his eyes flutter and every once in a while, he gives a great shudder.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he says. His hand finds your sex and he strokes you; your brain seems to collapse in on itself and you shudder and bask in his attention, press your sex into his ministrations.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” you chant breathlessly. “Please- oh, fuck!  _ Please _ , Kylo, please!”

Once again he seems to know what you are begging for even when you do not; his hands, his fingers, draw you closer to an edge you had not foreseen and send you crashing over it.

And you cum- so much more intense and rocky than you’ve ever felt before. It feels like your soul rips itself from your body in its joy and your brain shudders into non-existence for several long, glorious moments. All too soon you sail back down to earth, leaving you twitching and whimpering, hot and tired. He pulls out of you and feel his seed trickle out. You look up at him and admire him silently as he stares at you, as he sets you down and frowns at your thigh, your throat, and the spilled blood that is half-dried in a pool below you.

“Nothing this bad again,” he says quietly, his voice dripping with guilt. He touches your thigh and winces as pain shoots through you; your entire leg, your hip, aches. “Not ever again.”

“I loved it, Kylo,” you say gently. He looks up at you, appraising you.

“Good,” he says. “Let’s get you taken care of- you need to drink, to rest.”

“Yes, master,” you say with a small appreciative smile- one that he returns gently.


End file.
